This last volume of the Transylvanian trilogy is so ineffably sad that it is difficult for me to pen a review of it. Of course, one knew this was coming to pass from the previous two volumes as well as by a knowledge of world history. But, for all that, the tone of the book is such that the reader, along with Count Balint Abady, Miklós Bánffy's alter ego, can't help feel that he/she has lost both true love and home by the end of the reading of it. The piquant tone of the book is set in the first chapter here, where Abady, contemplating his return to the family estate, Denestornya, reflects: "My home, he thought, with its age-old beauty and magic, where, though always enveloped in a veil of sadness, there were only the two of them to wander in that enormous house: he and his old mother."
Aside from the lush descriptions of his beloved home and the doomed idyll he enjoys with the love of his life, Adrienne, there is also a great deal of what I suppose one would call "political philosophy" today, but which in Bánffy's account here, comes across as more of a cri de coeur against the follies of the European death-wish moving inexorably across the diplomatic landscape:
"Hereditary power is only possible when it rules a society that is itself built up in layers whose traditional apex is the Crown. There is nothing logical in this. It is a historical and emotional acceptance of an illogical fact; that is all. The monarch who turns demagogue and who puts himself at the head of popular revolutionary movements may fancy that he's feathering his own nest, but what he's really doing is preparing the way for a republic, or for the ruin of his own country!"
And, of course, ruin is what is nigh at hand.
The trilogy, as a whole, is full of beautifully rendered passages describing this lost world and the characters and the society - the ethos - which comprise it, completely disarming and enchanting the reader and filling him/her with the deep sadness of life. The trilogy, if classifiable, is a Romantic (capital "R") tragedy, but one based on actual events through which the author has lived. There is not much whimsy to be found, especially in this last volume. I'll close this review with one such moving passage from this last book:
"It was a glorious starlit night with the countless stars of heaven shining brightly in the dark sky. He thought he had never seen so many, and the Milky Way was like a vast river of light, its darker patches like islands, that wound its way from one horizon to the other. The great constellations were like letters of fire in the sky and, in Balint's imagination, seemed to be making their way ever closer to him so as eventually to disclose some ageless secret message even to that worm-like creature that was man, the secret, perhaps, of life and death...and of eternity..."
As Balint feels of the constellations, so one feels turning the pages of these books; there is something eternal in them.